What I have found here...

I am sitting in the airport, hours early. I want to see home and conifers and familiar things. I want to smell rich, wet, black dirt and inhale green, the green that I know. I want to feel the hands and embrace those I have spent years loving, not months. I want to be in that place where what I know to be true is true.

Here is palm trees and bright flowers and fruit on the air. It isn't bad, just unfamiliar, just different, just not what I know. Here isn’t home. In this place, people say good day to whomever they pass. They say hello and goodbye when they know you on the street. Here they love to hear you try to speak to them, even if you aren’t proficient.

But, here guards arm buildings and stop public busses with machine guns and skepticism. Here, the people are weary and tired and hard working. Here there are groups of young men who protect one another and kill groups of other young men, also protecting one another. . Here a man with a gun will take your camera and take your wallet and take the pictures of your family, If you ask really nicely you may get back your memory, or you may be made a memory.

Here, I don’t walk alone after dark because I know that being safe is not being independent. Here I am careful. Here fireworks make me cower under my covers or huddle on the floor.

This place isn’t an ugly place, nor a dangerous place, not anymore so than parts of home. This place simply isn’t what I know. It just isn’t the culture that I grew up in, where I learned what ‘safe’ and ‘normal’ and ‘live’ mean. It is a pace that was unknown, but now isn’t. A place that I have come to know, and love. This is a place where I have come to know that things I know are true, are not. Where things I know have different truths. A place where I have come to know that there are a kaleidoscope of truths. This is a place where I have come to find truth, have found it, and now I am going home to my truths. Maybe one day I will come and live among these again. Pronto nos sabemos, porque la vida es ir y venir.

Confessions of a Gringa!

Next

I was in theatre class, doing warm up exercises with the children (ten 9-12 year olds). I tried to ask who wanted to be next.

Me: Quien quieres …. ummm next?

Internal thoughts: Dang it all, what is the word for next?

Cesar (a 10 year old): Nexto?

Me: Si? Nexto es correcto?

Cesar: Si, si, si.

Me: Quien quieres nexto?

In the next class…

Josue: Podemos jugar nexto?

Internal thoughts: What does he want to play next?

Me: Como?

Josue begins to mime the beginning of the exercises from the previous class.

After class, I plug ‘next’ into google translate: proximo. I knew that! I plug in ‘nexto’ : nothing.

For the rest of class, warm ups have been known as ‘Nexto’. I successfully named a knew game. When I asked who wanted to be 'nexto' they took it as a title, not as a position in the chronological exercise.

The Bee

Charlotte and I are walking down the street, she drops her water bottle, it hits her elbow and lands dangerous close to a pedestrian walking parallel to us on the street.

Woman stares at Charlotte and I as if to say: Why did you just try to hit me with a water bottle, and a full one at that?

Charolette (in English): Oh, sorry!

Me: Lo siento!

Woman continues to stare:…

Charlotte stares at me, as if she expects me to explain.

Me: Hay un conejo.

Woman stares with a renewed ferver…

Internal thoughts: That is pretty straightforward ‘there is a bee...’ Ahhhh! I said rabbit!

Me: Abeja! Hay un abeja! Lo siento!

Woman nods and continues walking.

Was there a bee? Absolutely. Somewhere in the general vicinity... I am sure... Did it have anything to do with Charlotte basically throwing her water bottle at this woman? No. Not in the slightest. I just thought "Se cayo'" didn't explain the strength of her spastic-ness.

She’s Gotta Go

During a language lesson with Krissia

Krissia: Puedo ir al bano?

Me: No

Internal Thoughts: Do I look like I need to go, I mean I am a bit fidgety, but that isn’t new. She should be used to it… Is she trying to see if I physically can? What a strange question…

Krissia (confused): No?

Internal thoughts: There is no way I can screw that up… I learned it in high school… Puedo=can I, ir=go, al =the, bano=bathroom. Super straight forward….

Krissia: Pero, yo necesito…

Me: Oh! Si, SI, SI. Puedes!

She was asking me if she could go.

**Honorable Mention**

This is a wonderful faux pas from my dear friend Christy!

Get Knekked

Christy was teaching a class in a little town called El Sitio. She was showing the kinder class how to play human knots. All of the children were sufficiently knotted, holding hands with other children in a sufficiently complicated manner, ready to untangle themselves. She simply had to tell them to do so.

Christy: Ahora, vamos a desnudarnos.

Women cooking within hearing distance: Hehehe

Children stare and shuffle feet.

Christy’s Thoughts: des=un, nudar= knot…. Now, let's untie ourselves, oops, no definitely means get undressed! ...but her brain was stuck, and she said it again

Christy: Ahora, vamos a desnudarnos...

Women cooking within hearing distance: Hehehe... hehehe.. he

Children stare and shuffle feet some more.

Christy repeats, no less than 4 times: Ahora, vamos a desnudarnos...

Finally, the synopsis clicked and the right words came

Christy: Ahora, vamos a deshacer el nudo

...but she had asked a group of kinders to undress, no less than 5 times.

And many more... These are just a few of my favorites...

Things on my mind....

Slowly… very slowly… I am beginning to understand. This culture is altogether different. All together something I was not raised to understand. People here look you in the eye. They say good morning when they pass you on the street. Everyone says hola. Platitudes are prevalent. Even an offhanded invitation should be accepted. If you have an engagement but receive another invitation, you ditch the first and go with the most recent.

The poverty here is also something entirely different.

Sticks, sheet metal and corrugated board equal a house.

A child doesn’t go to school today because she doesn’t have glasses and cannot see the letters in the book.

An interesting piece of cultural news: this is a nation of 9 million people. 3 million of them live abroad. The biggest city in El Salvador is Los Angeles.

There are more cell phones in El Salvador than there are people.

The average wage in El Salvador is $154 a month. I can make that in 20 hours in the states, at minimum wage. Less than three days.

People are still afraid here. There civil war ended 30 years ago. People who experienced utter and complete violence are parents of this generation. People who had their rights infringed upon, who had no semblance of social justice in their lives, who lived in fear… They had to wonder who would be gone tomorrow, who would be found murdered next, looking for the Dark Mark over their homes next.

The United States funded the government, supplied arms and ammunition and missiles and bombs. All to terrorize a people who wanted food and water and medical care. Under the Reagan Administration, under the threat of communism, our government gave the label of terrorist to those fighting for sustenance.

Now, after peace accords have been signed for three decades, solidarity is still a common word, a common goal. How often do you use that word in the United States? Our meritocracy doesn’t allow for it.

How do you feel about all of that?

It gets better. No one blames the people of the United States. No one says that I helped to fund their war, or my parents helped. No one argues that I should be dishonored because of the American heritage.

How much better are they than we, then, those of us in the United States who judge every person of Middle Eastern descent, because of September eleventh.

Teatro! Day 1 !

I taught my first class in theatre yesterday… all on my own. It was scary, while at the same time, liberating. I molded my curriculum after Boal’s theatre of the oppressed, allowing the participants to guide what was happening on stage. This lasted for about 5 minutes, until I realized that I did not have enough language skill, no did these children know anything about theatre. I think that I was being a little too optimistic.

So, while still thinking of Boal, I taped some tongue twisters to the board and had each of my 8 rowdy 6-12 year olds read one, in a dramatic way (at least they could interpret it how they wanted to). I must admit that they were hilarious. One boy decided to sing the twister about chickens as if he were singing a hym. A little girl fell to her knees and almost cried about her mother spoiling her. Another boy, with a lot of potential, was an alien reciting a twister that is something similar to “if I can, I can, if you can, you can.” All in all, I laughed way too much.

Another anstonishing point to all of this, is that I had more boys than girls! How often does that happen in the USA? It was fantastic! They were pretty crazy a lot of the time, and a few of the more clam games I had planned were pushed aside for more communal, dramatic games. GO SOCIAL WORK FLEXABILITY. I think that those children went away with a sense of empowerment and a sense of self-expression, now I just hope they all come back on Thursday!

Another day on the South Side (of the Americas)

Amy, a lot of this is probably familiar to you J

Today was a question-your-entire-existence kind of day. How does my life and the changes it inspires impact those around me? Am I doing enough? Am I living up to the call of my God and the demand for justice in the world?

At the chapel where Monsenior Ramero was assassinated, while looking at the man whom he knew would pull the trigger, I was challenged. A sister in the order of the Caramalight asked us if our lives had purpose. She then prayed over us a beautiful prayer, asking God to be with us, encourage us and strengthen us. I was moved. I was astonished by the kindness and commitment to me this woman had. She had met me only minutes before, yet she prayed for me. This woman had a bold faith and a blatant commitment to social justice. She explained the lack of fear that Monsenior Ramero displayed, looking down the barrel of the gun that would kill him, She showed me an entirely different cultural view of death.

Would I do that? Unfortunately, no. In America, life is usually more important than the cause. Should it be? Does it depend on the cause?

The next stop on today’s agenda was a home for the elderly. It sported spots for 204 elderly persons in need. I was flabbergasted. Fifty or so beds lined the walls and filled long, narrow rooms. All that I could think of was the smell of body in the heat. The patients were friendly and open! One sung to us, and another insistently offered me her lunch. I declined, but appreciated the offer!

Lastly was the UCA campus. There we met with a gringo by the name of Dean. He was perhaps the most easy to communicate with, in that he spoke the same language as I. The meeting with him was more enlightening because it came from the perspective of my culture. It was easier to identify with.

Though out the day I was really able to embrace a cultural aspect El Salvador, that of facing death. Death is treated with a sort of reverence here. Pictures depicting death are common place. In America we would not see the graphic detail, the prevalence, and the brutal honesty.

When meeting with dean, he said “You come to El Salvador, we break your heart, and you go home ruined forever.” The breaking has begun, but will I be ruined…or will I be saved?

El Salvador Today!

Rights are not just given to us. As a young white female living in America, I knew this, but I didn’t really know. Today, directly following a delightful breakfast of rich, tropical fruits, I heard a man by the name of Damian speak. He looked like any other man in El Salvador (albeit dressed a bit better). And he was. He told us his story was all too comman for the people of his country. He detailed to me the story of hi s being a student at a local university, like myself, off studying to be an electrical engeniere, to make something of himself. He then told of walking to school and seeing a demonstration, and of walking home that night seeing policemen wash the blood off the steets, blood that he knew those same men had spilled.

The police murdered people. The police aren’t supposed to do that, the police are supposed to protect.

Damian went on to tell of his decision to join the guerillas, his discuss to fight for equal rights, and to stand up for food and housing and protection for all people: not just the wealthy.

He told of setting up secret radio stations in houses in towns where his actions would result in his death or tourtcer if caught. He once made plans with his cohorts to infiltrate and existing radio station, when they got to the station and announced who they were, all of the employees laid on the ground. He hadn’t even told them to yet. He pulled out a bomb from his bag, and said that they must let the entire message play, or they would detonate the bomb. Damian and his group left, and passed by much later, only to witness the government officials pulling the bomb out carefully, fearful they would accidently detonate it. Damian’s secret? The half-schooled electrical engineer that he was had no clue how to make a bomb. It was a glorified pop can with wires attached.

While that story was a bit comical, other portions of his tail were anything but. While transporting the equipment necessary to launch a radio station to further his cause, Damian and many other cars along the street he was traveling were stopped and searched. Damian was using a car not his own to transport the items. He had not followed protocol. He had not memorized the name and address on the registration. He caught a glimpse of the name, and recited it to the officer, but was not able to read the address. He was arrested, but only as a car thief. While at the prison, before being searched, he was handcuffed and left alone in a room. When the prison guard returned, Damian was vigorously gnawing on something. The prison guard withdrew the item from his mouth, look at him strangely and called him “loco”. He had just thoroughly destroyed a note from a fellow guerilla, with his teeth. The guard thought he was just a strange man who stole cars and enjoyed eating paper. He managed to remove that note from his breast pocket wit only his teeth. He barely escaped alive.

Some of his friends weren’t so lucky. In El Salvador there was a persision meat packing plant that could transform a cow into beautifully cut meat packages quickly. For a time during the civil war, it did not pack meat, but rather, those in opposition to the government.

Those were only a few of the stories of Damian.

Also on my agenda today was the San Salvador Coffee Cooperative. It is organic and fair trade deliciousness. We spent hours learning about growing organic coffee, and packing our own! (And yes, I am bringing some home with me!) I was able to introduce our group in Spanish!

After the Co-op was the crater called Boca Rone (meaning something like big mouth). It was the sight of the 1917 volcanic eruption that devastated the country! I climbed to the top of a volcano today (ok, so I took a bus most of the way, but still). I collected a few pieces of genuine volcanic ash, if ya’ll want to see it when I get home!

A pupusaria (YUMMM) and then back home to the hotel Oasis in San Salvador brought an almost end to my aked day. We finished it off with a movie on Father Oscar Ramerio, a n arch bishop, murdered in the civil war.

I’ll tell you more tomorrow!

Work to do......

What do you give? Who do you give it to? Where does is your time spent and on whom is it spent? Will you like the answers to these questions?

I don’t. I spend so much of my time not loving others, not helping others, not interacting with others. Is that time well spent? Is time watching TV spent well….ummm not for me.

My time is precious. My time should be used in ways that bring love and joy and social justice to life, things God wants…

If the sole goal of my existence is self-gratification, well…I’ve got it in the bag.

If the goal of my life is to bring others joy and love and hope… I suck at it.

That brings me then to the question: how do I make the lives of others better? How can I help humanity see the light? How can I help myself be less selfish?

I need to think about my friends first.

I need to need less.

I should give more than I receive.

I should be thankful for all that I do have.

I should serve others.

I need to SMILE.

I need to realize that my problems, pains, and aches are less than those of most people around me.

I should realize I am lucky.

Another story about you.

You are afraid, scared, confused.

You don’t know what it means exactly, and no one can explain it to you so that you can actually understand. You grasp your right hand with your left, just so that you feel attached to something right now. Your fingers are cold and trembley. That surprises you for a second. It takes your mind off of the news. You focus on making yourself hold still. You tell your brain, but it just doesn’t seem to listen. Your left clutches your right more , engulfs it in it’s expanse. In your chest your heart beats a bit too fast, a bit too erratically. You hear each lub and dub in the air. The noises float around outside and inside of your ears, somewhere deep. Your clutched hands press into your abdomen to keep that heaviness down. It seems to press into you, it feels as though a bowling ball has materialized there, and is pressing on everything else. The weight centers you, but not in a good way. It brings you to this reality, over and over again. Each time you breathe it increases. Each time you breathe the pulsing inside of you gets louder, denser, the weight gazes at you, it stares and centers itself again.

All of the sudden all you can hear is the pulsing. Nothing else exists: just you, the offbeat pulse and the weight of it. The feeling that your drowning from the inside out. No, not drowning. You’re being suffocated. The feeling is not allowing your lungs to expand. Not allowing you to be. You move one shaking hand from the hole to your heart. Your skin is sticky and warmer than it should be. You should be all ice right now. The roughness of your worker’s hands chafe as you clutch at the beating of it, as you hold onto the only thing still working as it should. You press so hard you feel the beating in your thumbs, your fingers, too. The noise intensifies. It echoes itself. Your whole existence for those few seconds is a series of staccato drumbeats, fingers rapping, low notes on the piano.

Your knees do not hold you up now. They release into nothing until the floor kisses you. It is hard, cool and somehow, unequivocally inviting. Curling up into yourself into yourself lets you turn down the beats, decreases the weight, by a miniscule fraction, but still…

Your hands seem to know how to comfort you. They rub the denim of your jeans in rhythmic motions, elliptical. At least something is still in rhythm. The material is thin with stretching and working and life. With your knees holding your stomach you can breathe. The air comes in forcefully and all at once. You choke on it. A scene from log ago flashes through your head, your grandmother “does the air have bones in it.” A giggle escapes your lips. You feel your face conform to a smile, it didn’t have your permission. But, what needs per mission form you nowadays? At least you made it home before you caused a scene. At least here you can by hysteric without anyone knowing.

That night your dreams are unusual, exotic, awkward and vividly different. They point to realities in ways, yet are vastly unrealistic. In one, the cold metallic scent of tinfoil infiltrates. It is spread out around you as you sit on the floor. The knife in your hand is the one you use to carve turkey. It should be up to the job. In your dream the blade feels like silk, the handle smooth and polished, marble. Over your finger you run the knife, to test it. It almost seems to tickle. Giggles bubble up and spill into your ears as the red escapes the skin. The blood smells metallic, too, just like the foil, it is warm though, much warmer than you are.

Slowly... you blink awake.

The carver is a part of your arm, an extension of yourself. It is made to be there. The tinfoil seems weird. You just use a towel. The carving knife though, that is just right. It really does feel perfect. The first cut, true to your dream, on your fingers, doesn’t bring forth the right type of giggle. In your dream it was soft, melodious, tickle induced. This time it is hard, maniacal, crazed. It does hurt, but it does feel right, too. You draw it across your skin to cut it out. Raggedly, it is harder than was in a dream. It isn’t long before that metallic smell is all you can discern. It isn’t long before you realize how good it is. It isn’t long before you decide that the shimmer on the edge of your eyes is an omen, a welcome one. It isn’t long before you don’t remember, before you’re black, before you’re gone.

A Story About You.

This is what you’d have seen, heard, known, if you’d have been me. This is how you would experience life.

At home: you look into the mirror, ignoring the toothpaste spatter. You touch your cheeks, pink from the hike up the stairs. You can’t help but wonder if the color of your porcelain, snowy, feathery, and yet another cliché for your white, as death skin is to blame. Your hair is your next attribute under scrutiny. Kinks escaping from the braid wrapped around your head are a brownish, blondish, red, and messy. Those stupid locks are never where they are meant to be, and leave you feeling unkempt all the time. Maybe you look as unkempt as you feel. Maybe it is the weight, maybe those extra thirty pounds on your five foot frame really do matter that much. Oh! Your five foot frame! Are you just too short? Heels! You’ll just wear heels from now on! The back of your mind screams of the impracticality of your newest idea, but then again, when have you ever been practical?

You see why he does what he does. You know your imperfections.

You want to tell him. You want him to know how you feel, about how he makes you feel. You can’t really describe what happens to you when it happens. The tingle of your lips, the warmth spreading through you: the hope that one day he will stop and speak to you again. That he will say more than his customary “good morning”.

You shake a little too noticeably, standing outside of his office. The wood of his office door seems hard, a little too warm under your hand. The smoothness of his voice tells you to come in, and the warmth covers you. It seeps in through your ears as you hear him, and your eyes, as the door sweeps open and you see him in all of his righteousness and prestige. You can’t help but wonder how the warmth would feel if you touched him, if you could taste him. Whoa, you need to stop yourself. You need to breathe. You realize he was talking, what did you miss?

……………………………………………..

You wake up slowly, fuzzy on the inside. The mattress is stiff under you, firm. His Egyptian cotton doesn’t feel so soft as you flex your fingers and run the back of your hand along your body, over your thigh and hip. Skimming the thumb sized bruise your thumb didn’t press into existence. The finger prints match the ones on your doorknob, your drawer pulls, your ring. Your body is warmer than it should be. You skin feels normal to your hands, the right temperature. It should feel cold, like death, like frostbite, like numb from ice. It betrays you and your thoughts. Your body lies to your soul, and to the world.

You mouth is dry and raw and unclean. It bubbles up from the back of your throat, but a quick swallow and shallow breath puts it into place. Your fingers surprise you when they brush across the broken skin of your lips. The corners of your mouth don’t want to cooperate as you grimace, as your face changes from sleep to emotion.

Your body groans as loud as the bed as you twist around, untangling your limbs from the burnt pumpkin sheets the somehow found their way around your legs. Your toes on the all too familiar plush of the carpet is welcoming. It grounds you, you feel more connected with your mind now.

As you lean over to stretch, your hair touches your face and shoulders, so softly. It smells like him, not you. It smells like his body and his cologne, not like it should, like your shampoo, lilacs and vanilla and clam.

..................................................................

The water rises to cover you and the smells of citrus and chill and steam bubble up around you; your thighs, too thick, your ankles, too fat, your feet, too small, your too full tummy and stretched out sides. You’re ok with your chest, and he is too, as long as you keep it covered for every other man, and uncovered for him. Your gaze moves up to your arms, and then your inner eye caresses your face. You stop yourself.

You know that it is more than that, more than the physical things. He chose you, didn’t he? He obviously could get past those flaws. But he won’t get past this, he can’t. He has told you so many times. You hear his voice inside: hard like a diamond, and just as glittery, charming and cold. You hear him. He never needs them, never wants them. That is why he has you, and you are forever.

“You will always be mine.”

All of the sudden you feel off, too unbalanced, exposed. With your toes, you twist the metal faucet, smooth and shiny. You cannot handle the feeling of the water anymore. You have a headache from the noise of the rushing, pounding water meeting the water. It was fast and overwhelming. But it was gone now.

You marvel for a split second at ease of shutting off that pain, and then stop watching all at once. You promised yourself “no pity”. You knew what you were biting into all of the months ago. You knew even then. You knew when you said “I will”, when you tied yourself to him, that ring as a reminder string on a special finger.

It is prefect on the outside, gold and strong and meticulous, the diamond perfectly cut, perfectly set. Like him, like he is on the outside. You wonder then, what is it like on the inside? Is it like him, too? The strange desire you have to cut open the ring, to run to the kitchen and find the meat cleaver and wield it toward your hand is so uncharted it scares you.

You are getting so awkward, so scary. You just aren’t you anymore. The parasite is demanding, you put your hands on the edge of the marble tub and hoist yourself up. You grab the bottle from the counter it is comfort in your hand. It is familiar. You realize that just the orange of the bottle has become a safeguard. You open the bottle slowly and slide back into the warmth. You slip the pill into your mouth and gently sink your head beneath the water. It flows into your ears and makes them tickle. It flows into your mouth and you swallow the small oval. The water tastes like water and soap and grime, not like orange, but what does it matter. You swallow again, and once more. You begin to panic for a second. You are still under the warmth. Your mouth breaks faith with the water and you breathe. In and out, in and …why?

Why isn’t it helping? You grab the bottle again and toss pills into your mouth, as quickly as you can, not at all slowly this time. You throw the pill bottle to the floor. “Stop” you yell in your mind. You need to not panic. You need to relax. You breathe. You cup the water with your hand to your mouth, once, twice, a third gulp. All the pills are gone now.

The edge is off. You feel hazy now, like yourself, more numb.

You slide back under the water, the bubbles tickling your nose as your breathe goes in and out. It is pulsing under the water. It is comfortable and so warm. You make your fingers move over your smooth legs, up to your too large abdomen. For the first time, you feel like it isn’t such a big deal. It doesn’t really matter all that much. You are comforted. You feel tired, you close your eyes, the pulsing slows, methodically, sounding further away and further still. You are thankful for the pills, you are thankful for the warmth; you are thankful for the rhythm under water.

You…you are more clearly at peace, more so then ever you are. You know this is right. You picture him, hard and diamond and smooth. Your hand pushes (or at least you think it might be pushing) on your belly for a tiny moment, one stretched out, far off rhythmic pulse. You feel sorry for it, and then you picture him, and you aren’t sorry anymore.

You let it go, and you let you go, you don’t hear it, the beat, anymore. You don’t feel you anymore. You succumb to it, slowly, fuzzy on the inside.

Will you tell her??

I want a friend that asks me how my day was, and excepts a “fine.” I want to ask someone about their life, and then get a “swell” in return. I want to discuss only pleasantries and the weather and possibly a recent news article. I want to have shallow and meaningless conversation with someone who knows it is shallow and meaningless.

I want to have a relationship with the least possible amount of “deep” and “mushy.” I want easy, fun, and acquaintance-like conversation all rolled into a friend. I am tired of heartfelt and soul baring moments. I am tired of being emotionally invested. I DON’T WANT IT RIGHT NOW!

I love people, I love my friends, I love to help people work out those problems that they just need to talk over…

But I also love to not be me, not be deep, and not be committed anymore than politeness dictates. I love to have conversations where I don’t have to talk about how I feel, or what I want out of life, or how I’d like get to know someone better.

Now that I have gotten that off my chest, I’d like to share how I feel about something J

So… ummm… Are you going to tell her she’s adopted?

Cierra and I look a lot alike. I mean, we both crinkle our nose the same way, and we both scowl with our eyes and jut out our chins when we are angry… We both have curly hair and small hands. We look a lot alike, except for the fact that my skin is similar in color to a strawberry shake, and hers is more like a coffee with a cream or two…

When I was 16 years old my parents adopted a baby girl. She came to our house, right from the hospital. From her birth, Cierra has been my baby sister. But in high school, a friend asked me if we were going to tell her she was adopted. I was holding her in my arms. The contrast in appearance was, I am sure, striking.

I looked to my friend and replied “I think she’ll figure it out.”

But it seems as though a lot of perspective parents aren’t willing to let a child figure those things out. The waiting list for adopting a child in the United States is more or less 7 years. That child that so many people are on a waiting list for is healthy, and is white. Families are not willing to adopt children of color unless the family is of color as well. If a family wants a child that badly, why are they willing to wait 7 years? Are those the families we should be giving children to?

Holes...

I have found that writing about my life for people to read is like a catharsis, it is a catalyst for change within me. A weight lifts when I realize that my secrets aren’t secrets anymore. God knows everything that I think, but sometimes that isn’t enough. Sometimes I need to let things out for the world to see (and when I say world, I mean the 5 people who have subscribed to my blog). It helps me to heal.

Healing isn’t easy. When something hurts, and leaves an impression. I was once told a story in relation to healing. I was told that if you pound a nail into a board, there is a hole. When you turn the hammer around and wrench the nail free, there is still a hole. When a person is hurt, the nail is driven into them, when you realize you hurt someone, and pull it out, the hole is still there.

That is hard for me to understand. I was raised to believe in forgiving and forgetting. I was raised to believe that once you’ve apologized or served penance or confessed to a deed, it was gone. Done. No longer your burden to bear. The same applies to the religion I claim, once I confess and ask forgiveness of my sin, Jesus forgives it and then my soul is wiped clean. It is gone. Done. No longer my burden to bear, it is Christ’s.

So why does it feel like those holes don’t close? That ach is still inside, an empty place where something belongs. After time, it may be that the emptiness is forgotten. But once your heart ventures back to that topic, the empty resurfaces and stretches out to its normal size.

People don’t heal like they are supposed to.

My grandfather is a proud man. He was a police officer, and later the captain of the police force in Ann Arbor. He calmed race riots and helped to solve the case of the Michigan Murder. He was in the army. He has pride. He has cancer.
He has claimed victory over cancer once before. He still has nightmares about the radiation. What holes will be born into my strong grandfather this time? Who does he forgive for this hurt? Who do we need to forgive? How will he heal?

Fostering Thoughts

Today in my sociology class, a foster family came in to speak with us about the process and their experience. They have been this for 2 years. I have been involved in the foster care system for 11 years. That is half of my life. They have had one long term placement; off the top of my head I can remember at least 14. They were newbies. They had one child to reference. I could have referenced 47. I was quiet. I raised my had when they asked if anyone had a connection to the foster care system, and I said how many kids we had, and that it had been a mostly positive experience. I don’t count it as lying.

It was a mostly positive experience. I love my siblings. I love my parents. I love that I can handle babysitting just about any child, because I have dealt with just about every behavioral issue…

I just don’t love my ability to “forget” that I ever called someone sister or brother. I don’t love that I cannot see my family for a month or two, and not miss them (not because I don’t want to miss them, but because I just don’t). I don’t love my attachment issues. I don’t love that I learned about child abuse from a sobbing girl.

This is an excerpt of an essay I wrote; I thought it might help explain me:

“In 2000 my parents became foster parents for children in need of a home. This means that children with stories no child should be able to tell were living in my house. This means that I was no longer the baby, the princess, the only little girl. This means that I had forty-two brothers and sisters, with lives so much worse than I had imagined possible, in the space of eleven years. This means that I want to be a social worker, so that I will be able to help children in situations similar to those my foster siblings have experienced. Since the arrival of the first sibling group of foster children in my home, I knew that I would be a social worker. I really have never debated this concept. My reasons for becoming a social worker are clear.

…One event stands out more than any other. Ingrained in my memory forever is the image of a single night in my life. One of my foster sisters lying in bed beside me, a girl not even five years younger than I at the time. Crying uncontrollably, grieving over her turbulent life, her unspeakable past, and her uncertain future, I hadn’t even known this little girl a month. She was baring her soul to me, telling me things I would never except to hear, from even my closest of friends.

That night I became aware of what abuse really is. I learned that people hurt people more than a playground taunt or an undeserved scolding. That night I learned that children can be used in place of punching bags and stress balls, in place of wives and mommies. That night, I cried just as hard as she did. I cannot say that I cried just for her that night in a comfortable bed full of nightmares. I think some of the tears were for me, for my shattered innocence, for the knowledge I never wanted to acquire. Those tears were for my world, for all of its newly discovered evils, for the sadness forced to dwell in hearts of children too small to bear it. As I lay beside her I couldn’t imagine that much pain; that much unfairness in the world my God created.

I could not imagine how parents could not know how to be parents, not know how to treat their children, and not know that they just did not love right. I had loving parents, I did not know that was special, rare, a gift. That little girl was only seven years old, and had more traumatic experiences squeezed into them than I had ever dreamed a possibility in my eleven years. She was a small, meek child with deep brown hair, deeper brown eyes, and a pain with a depth I cannot even put into words.

The sobs racking through her body and matching the tremors of my own, tears warm and salty on faces, arms, shoulders, the pillow; left stains on tangible and intangible surfaces. Maybe though, the stains I obtained that night lessened some of hers... After she was asleep I made my way back to my bed and lie awake. I made a promise to myself and to God to help her, that night. Over the years I have realized I cannot really help her now. She has a new home, a new life and hopefully, less pain. I haven’t seen that little girl in over nine years. However, I can help others in her situation. That night I could do nothing, I was only a child myself, trying to help a child. Now, I will be able to do something, I have to do something. I have to fulfill my promise…. “

That night will never leave me.

Abuse wasn’t the only thing I learned from the children in my home. I learned snarky remarks, witty comments, and cuss words. I also learned how to lie perfectly (we once had a master of lies in our home), I learned how to bend the truth.

I learned how to love brokenness, I learned how to be a big sister instead of the baby, and I learned how to grow up.

I learned ugly, but I learned inner beauty. I learned self-sacrifice and self-actualization through looking at my parents. I learned a lot of things that I don’t feel like they have yet.

So back to the young couple in my class, fresh eyed and with two children in tow (and a third on the way). I looked at those two little girls and I say a flash of myself in their eyes. I saw my parents in them. I saw the desire to help society and make a change burning within them.

I saw that, and I was afraid for them. I was afraid that in ten years, they would be haggard and have eyes clouded with the evil they had seen. I am terrified that one day they will realize that those two perfect little girls and that baby, still protected completely by his mother’s womb, will be just a haggard as they are. I fear they will one day realize that loving children has hurt their family.

I don’t pity them though. The bad, as dark and foreboding as it may seem, is dark and painful. The good though, the good will shine through hardened hearts and blazing eyes. The good will still be there, it will be underneath a harder exterior, it will be.

It will be worth it all. It will be worth the missed parent teacher conference and the non-existent birthday party and the forgetting to pick from schools. It will be hard, but it will be life changing and it will be elating.